


Basket Case

by mentallyillbitchfrom2018 (orphan_account)



Series: I’m keeping these up but jESUS christ [3]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: First Person, Gen, M/M, Mentioned purple guy, Mentions of Underage Sex, Not Good, Scott-Centric, Suicidal Idealisation, Suicide mention, This is, a lot of suicidal thoughts, but he’s unnamed so, i promise I’m ok, i was at a low point writing this, reading some of this makes me uncomfortable, scott laments about his bullshit, self harm mention, wow um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21685294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/mentallyillbitchfrom2018
Summary: A first person look into the fucked psyche of the ‘phone guy’.
Relationships: No Relationships, Purple Guy/Phone Guy- mention
Series: I’m keeping these up but jESUS christ [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2130522
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Basket Case

**Author's Note:**

> Ohhhh shit y’all better be ready for some fucked up stuff so make sure you ain’t gonna trigger yourself by reading this

People treat you differently once they find out about your darkest secrets.

They pretend they don’t, and deny it when you call them out on it, but they do. For me, they treat me like a glass, or a piece of stupidly expensive china that your mother’s had in her cupboard for god knows how long and never used.

I cut. A lot. And, yes, I know I shouldn’t. I’ve been told that enough to have five different replies depending on the type of person I’m talking to. But, that isn’t the biggest problem. I do try to stop, honestly, but if you’ve got a habit- say, smoking, or biting your nails- you know how hard it is to quit. You can’t, no matter how hard you try. It takes real willpower and concentration, the two things I am severely lacking in.

Every single time I meet a new person, I have to explain it. It gets so tiring, day after day, having to explain why exactly I hate myself and why I don’t just stop. Some people are more considerate than others, and some are extremely ignorant.

Honestly, that isn’t the worst thing I do to myself. If people knew about the self hatred, the elaborate plans, the physical and mental scarring I put myself through for the sake of feeling something, _ anything_ \- I’d be placed on suicide watch immediately. I’d never be alone again. Which is why I can’t have anyone find out about it. I need to be alone for the majority of the time.

Often I’ll wake up in the middle of the night. It’ll be a completely innocent reason, and I’ll feel safe. He’s sleeping right next to me, and I am completely sound with my situation. But, without distraction, my thoughts can start taking the lead, an onslaught of insults and battering of plans gone to waste.

_ You ate too much today, you know everything you eat just goes to waste since you’re nothing but subhuman. It’d be better off being thrown out than consumed by you. Go and throw it up. _

_ You haven’t cut in a while. You know you love it, it gives you feeling. The way the blood runs down, staining everything- it’s like you. You dirty everything you touch. That’s why you shouldn’t touch anyone. You get them dirty. _

_ Why don’t you just end it tonight? You know where everything is. No note, nothing. Just your disgusting, skeletal body hanging from the ceiling. Or on the floor of the bathroom. Either works. Just as long as you end up dead. _

_ Why did you stop being the way you were when you were a teenager? Every time you did it, a little part of you broke. It slowly sawed away at your sanity, now all that’s left is this piece of shit inhuman garbage you call a body- _

I’ll need to stop there. I might actually start listening to it. Scariest thing is, that is 100% me. Not some little voice, no outer influences, just my mind relaying information I’ve learned over the years. I am subhuman. I don’t deserve what I have. I should have just stayed being people’s stress reliever, unnamable and untraceable. Hit me, take advantage of me, whatever. I don’t care.

I’ll keep smiling.

I fucking hate my smile. It’s gross. But I can’t stop smiling. Every time I do something I hate, something I swore I wouldn’t do again, I can’t help but smile. It’s some sick, twisted irony that God decided they’d shove on me for fun.

I’ve really been drawn the short stick in life. I feel guilty because I know there’s people worse off than me, but I’ve got it pretty shit as it is. I grew up in a heavily religious house as an extremely faggoty kid, which lead to a teenage rebellion including sleeping around and disappearing for days on end when I didn’t have school. I developed an addiction to multiple things, mainly sex and self harm, opening the doorway to ways of combining the two. Some of the guys I got with were _ really _ pent up. No prep, no nothing, just pain and occasional shitty kisses.

Then there was him. _ Fuck him. _ He wouldn’t listen to me. The way he touched me, like we were much more than just a one night stand. I hated it. I hated him. He was gentle, gentler than what I’d been used to at the time. He wanted me to enjoy it. I wasn’t there for his amusement, we were there for each other’s.He caught me off guard. I wanted him to use me like a rag doll, not stare at me as if it was our fucking wedding night. He didn’t pressure me, and took his time making sure whatever he was feeling at the time was mutual. When I asked him why, he told me it was because I looked ‘fragile’, and that he didn’t want to ‘break me’, like I was some sort of basket case. 

I met him a year later, and  _shit,_ he was as annoying as ever. Flirty, imposing, almost the kind of guy I’d go for, if it weren’t for the constant coddling. He was a lot less palatable when we weren’t both drunk. ‘Have you eaten’? ‘Are you okay’? I wanted him to fuck right off or treat me like the trash he knew I was. But he did neither. He _insisted_ on getting close to me. And it worked. By god, it fucking worked. 

He saw everything. _ Everything._ All the shit I wouldn’t let anyone else see, he saw it all. The breakdowns, the manic, the bitterness- all of it. And he sat there and took it, like a cocky kid at the doctors office. Not one single word after it had been dealt with. He was so  _goddamn_ accepting. All the walls I’d spent years carefully building up came crashing down as soon as he knocked on the gate. And try as hard as I might, they couldn’t be salvaged. He had access to every single part of me, and I was perfectly willing to hand him the master key. 

A part of me hated it, reminding me that I shouldn’t get close to him. But most of me, the part ruled over by the shitty bits for so long of my life, was so happy to finally have someone to fall back on. I still had my sister, but I couldn’t tell her everything. Him, him I could tell whatever, and he spoke back with strange experience, though when I asked him he’d claimed he’d never once been in therapy.

I got better. Not that much better, but, hey, I gained some fucking weight. I didn’t stop cutting. Couldn’t. The look on his face when he found poorly hidden equipment or new scars was almost make me enough to quit. Almost. Emotional hurt isn’t quite enough for me. If he’d have beaten some sense into me I would’ve stopped years ago. But he’s too kind for that. Too fucking kind. Wouldn’t touch me in that way if it meant he could escape death.

If I came across another person who hated me as much as I hated me, I’d be a bloody pulp by now. I’d meet them everyday. Even if it were for a single slap. Something to remind me that I am not invincible. I am discardable. Replaceable.

If I died, give it a week and he’d find someone much better than me. Someone deserving of his love. A little less problematic, someone he wouldn’t have to talk off of a ledge 4 times a day.

Maybe I didn’t have to die. I could break up with him. Go back to before then. The dark days. Live long enough for him to forget I ever existed then show up in an alley 7 states away- an unnamed, unreported body that no one would ever find out about.

Upon the autopsy, they’d find multiple drugs in the system and rule it a suicide. A sad, pathetic ' _John Doe'_ that OD’d because he couldn’t take whatever he was going through. 

I’d have fun before that. Sleep around again. The autopsy would also reveal one hell of a background. Bruises, rope burns, cuts- looks like something right out of a torture film, right? That would be what I do to myself as a hobby. Bring myself to the point of death, then stop and painfully recover until I’m half healthy enough to do it again. One day, I’d go overboard and wouldn’t be able to bring myself back. Some sick excuse for a human being.

In the event that he did recognise me, in the unlikely event it made it onto the news, he’d only recognise the name. Me, myself? I would be completely unrecognisable. Face and body littered with scars that weren’t there before, hair unrecognisable as it’s matted with dirt and blood. Body mangled far beyond what he knew. 

He’d sit there watching the story with his fiancé, a small part of his brain recollecting: ‘I knew him’.

Yeah, I knew me too.

Used to, anyway.


End file.
